


Testing Waters

by IWriteJrinsNotTragedies



Series: Jregnancy: A Novelette [1]
Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Male Pregnancy, Romantic Fluff, Spooning, Unplanned Jregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, description of cock, description of piss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24638383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWriteJrinsNotTragedies/pseuds/IWriteJrinsNotTragedies
Summary: On a frosty morning in April, Jreg passes a test.
Relationships: Jreg Jruevara/Authleft
Series: Jregnancy: A Novelette [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981321
Comments: 31
Kudos: 64





	Testing Waters

**Author's Note:**

> slam as much as you can take and hand the bottle to me -- Nickleback

Jreg Jruevara was many things. A poet, a musician, a content creator for the masses; hard working, with a mastery of political satire. He was also, on this chilly morning in early April, waking to the birds chirping for the first time in the new decade.

He laid on his side on a double mattress, comfortable beneath the soft, warm duvet. The morning light danced through the bedroom’s frost-covered windows, still frigid to the touch even in springtime. His eyes flickered open and closed, mind foggy from another late night of editing, but unwilling to slip back into sleep. He momentarily thought about getting up and putting the kettle on, but decided against it as a chill swept through the room and reminded him of his half-dressed state. Instead, he snuggled back into the warm presence that was tucked into the crook of his neck.

“Good morning, _моя любовь_ ,” Commie whispered sleepily, as if sensing his partner’s arousal. He pressed a close-lipped kiss into Jreg left shoulder and nuzzled closer into the warm body he was holding. The authoritarian had one arm beneath his pillow and the other laid over the top of his lover’s hips and under his stomach, clutching softly with his big hands, in the same position they had fallen asleep in the night before.

“Morning, Commie,” Jreg breathed, suddenly not so angry at the songbirds for waking him up. He relaxed the tension he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding and melted further into his partner’s touch.

‘ _This is nice,’_ he thought—and it was. The authoritarian was a space heater, radiating warmth into the cold room they shared. They laid like that for countless minutes, basking in each other's presence, until the sun had risen, shining directly into Jreg’s eyes. In response, he merely turned inward so their fronts were pressed together. The motion elicited a chuckle from the larger man, who responded by playfully tightening his grip on the anticentrist.

“You have good dreams?”

Jreg smiled sheepishly and breathed something unintelligible into Commie’s bare chest. At that, the extremist loosened his hold and shuffled back so he could look into his partner’s eyes.

“ _Что?_ What are you smiling about?” The authoritarian asked coyly, a smirk audible in his voice. Jreg simply groaned and pressed his forehead back into his companion’s chest.

“I dreamed Centricide 6 was done, and—and then I woke up, excited to upload it, but nope,” Jreg exclaimed exasperated, all sleepiness emptied from his body as he waved his arms expressively, sitting up, “I dreamt the whole thing up—and it was so _good_ , too! But you want to know the worst part, Commie?”

The authoritarian quirked a brow.

“The worst part is,” Jreg placed a hand dramatically on his forehead, as if to say _woe is me_ , “I barely remember the script!” He said and closed his eyes with a faux gasp before he collapsed onto his back.

“That _is_ the worst part,” The communist pouted sympathetically and cupped his partner’s face, who leaned into the touch, “Come close, I will make you feel better.”

The two connected without hesitation, engulfing each other’s lips in a sensual kiss. Commie’s free hand tugged teasingly at the hem of his shirt—a graphic tee of some band Jreg couldn’t remember the name of from many years ago—working its way to touch the bare skin underneath. They stayed together like that for as long as they could until, finally, the satirist had to break for air.

 _‘Bleh, morning breath,’_ Jreg thought, though with a cheeky smile, and began to unfurl himself from his partner’s grasp with the intention of making a quick trip to the bathroom. However, just before he could break free, his partner tightened his hold on him.

“No, do not leave, _моя мыши_... Stay a little longer.” Commie spoke quietly into his ear, flexing his arms around his lover’s smaller body and entrapping him in a sleepy hug. Jreg playfully struggled his way out from under the communist’s grasp, as if battling his way off the bed.

“I’ll be back soon, babe. Just gotta wash out the ol’ morning breath. Then,” Jreg eyed the half chub in Commie’s boxer briefs with a smirk, “we can take care of _that_.”

The pantsless satirist ducked out of the room and hastily made his way towards the bathroom down the hall. He entered on his tip-toes; the hardwood had been cold, but that was nothing compared to tile flooring. Alternating the weight on his feet, he applied the toothpaste to his toothbrush and began brushing his teeth. He had noticed some significant improvements to his dental hygiene after quitting porn and had theorized that his brain had been so desperate for another routine that it had latched onto anything that gave it structure—including flossing after every meal. Rinsing his mouth with tap water and patting a stubbly face dry with a towel, he turned around to face himself in the bathroom’s full-length mirror.

He studied his form, which was still visible beneath the shirt he had worn to bed. His eyes raked over his neck, traps, shoulders, and arms that he spent hours cultivating with sheer discipline. His pecs, which, although small, were firm, sticking out rather prominently this morning. Finally, his gaze lowered to his stomach, where his confident smirk faltered as he stared down the incessant bit of chub that had made a home on his lower abdomen; as of late, no matter how many calories he cut, crunches he did, or miles he cycled, he would always awaken the next morning with this persistent pouch on his waistline. Ordinarily, this would have been no big deal—just a quick trip to the gym, and his metabolism would take care of the rest—however, the mass refused to yield to his efforts.

 _‘Damn you, BeaverTails®,’_ Jreg thought angrily as he poked and pinched the fat—as if he could merely _wish_ it away, ’ _getting in the way of my rockin’ bod.’_ He let his hands fall to his sides in defeat as he took one last longing gaze at himself in the mirror.

He started to turn on his heels to face the counter, but before he could a wave of nausea hit Jreg square in the gut. Immediately, he keeled over as his legs turned to jelly and he frantically dove for the toilet while he could feel the bile worming its way up his throat. His hands couldn’t pry open the lid fast enough before he spilled his stomach’s contents into the bowl. He stayed like that, hunched over the toilet, for what felt like an absurd amount of time, until he was once again able to properly breathe.

With the last of the acidity fading from his tongue, Jreg groggily closed the lid and flushed. The retching had stolen away any energy for the day that sleep had gifted him, prompting him to run a hand through his messy curls as he sat on the cold tile bathroom floor. He looked down at his stomach—hoping that vomiting had removed his unceasing bloat—but to no avail. The heaviness in his stomach was still there. He had felt fine moments earlier, so why had the nausea felt like such a kick in the—

...no.

No way.

He _couldn’t_ be.

They had been _careful_ . They had been _deliberate_. Using protection, always making sure to take a fat shit afterwards—and yet the more he attempted to rationalize his sickness, the more realistic the cause became.

The possibility hit him like a sack of bricks.

Shaking, he sat up and took a closer look at his reflection. He ran one hand over his clammy face, riddled with acne previously unseen since high school—the other traveled to his chest where it poked and prodded. His previously pristine pecs were, to Jreg’s horror, tender to the touch.

“Shit,” he mouthed as he sprung up to close the bathroom door before turning towards the bathroom cabinet, flinging open its bottom drawers.

_‘Shit, shit, shitshitshitshitshit—’_

Jreg felt like a vacuum had been opened inside of him, stealing his insides and leaving him boneless, small, afraid. Searching frantically in the cabinet between abandoned razors, shower gels, and candles, his hands were feeling for one specific item which had laid untouched, collecting dust for years. Approaching the back corner, the anticentrist had nearly given up when his fingers brushed against a small thermometer-shaped object.

As he pulled the pregnancy test out of the cabinet, the gravity of the situation dawned on him. He once again felt the nausea—except this time it was a slow creep throughout his veins, rooting him to the floor. Terror. Afraid to stand, he scrunched his eyes shut and began to count the seconds between breaths. He sat back on his bottom and attempted to summon courage forth into his bloodstream.

When his breathing had returned to a somewhat normal rhythm, he flipped over the stick so it faced front. It was decidedly regular looking—white and bow-shaped, with a pink cap to cover the collection swab. In the middle was a viewport of sorts, with a legend that was labelled beside it. Jreg swallowed thickly as he read it.

_**|** Not Pregnant _

_**| |** Pregnant _

Attempting to boost his confidence, Jreg tried to think positively and rationalize his predicament; ‘ _C’mon, Jregor. You can do this. It’s going to be negative_ — _probably just something you ate! Yeah, that works.’_

With newfound strength, he cautiously lifted himself up, fists clenched by his sides, and faced the toilet. He lifted up the seat, reached into his grey boxers and took out his six-point-two-inch cock. Aiming it at the bowl, he held the test stick out at arm's length so that the piss stream would make contact with it on its way out.

With the urine drained from his balls and the test more or less completed seconds later, he shook twice and tucked himself back into his boxers. Without pausing to wash his hands, he set the stick beside the sink. He couldn’t bear to watch the lines fade into place and frantically ducked down to sit on the floor, back against the counter.

Seconds that felt like hours dragged by. Jreg had already begun to pick at his fingernails. Worries ran rampant in his mind, flying past faster than he could really dwell on them. The satirist tried desperately to look for something around the room to keep his focus, but to no avail. He settled on looking skyward at the textured ceiling, trying to distract himself by making out shapes in its grain.

He thought back to all the things he had eaten previously which could have triggered this set of unsightly body changes, eventually settling on the tuna wrap he had two days ago— _’Yeah, that’s it,’_ —and deciding that he had waited with anxiety long enough; now was the time to face the facts.

’ _The 'facts' being, that I am, decisively, NOT pregnant,_ ’ Jreg repeated in his mind like a mantra, psyching himself up for the big reveal. When he was thoroughly convinced, he launched himself upward and confidently reached for the test, staring down at it with reformed vigor....

...and saw a double line staring back at him.

_**| |** Pregnant _

He nearly fainted at the sight.

The illusions he had built up in his mind shattered. His perfect life— _their_ perfect life—had been completely flipped, turned upside down. His eyes fell to the mass on his stomach—though now he could see it had a round dimension to it; rounder than just some deep-fried delicacy. As his hands settled in his lap—shaking—Jreg realized he would have to make one of two decisions;

To keep it,

or to yeet it.

He hadn’t planned this— _nobody_ plans to be a father at 23. Sure, thoughts of parenthood had been at the back of his mind, but the idea of securing a nation-state for his future children had never been a main concern of his. Just when he figured the worst of the thoughts had come and gone, a much darker, _third_ option intruded, materializing from the deepest crevices of his mind:

_‘Just don’t tell him.’_

Though the words never left his head, he slapped his hands over his mouth in shock. ‘ _Of course I have to tell Commie, it’s his child, too,’_ Jreg scolded himself; but the thought had already rooted itself to his mind— _would it really be so cruel to get rid of their child without telling his partner?_

Sitting in his boxers on the cold, hard floor of the bathroom, bare legs pulled close to his chest and a positive pregnancy test in his right palm, Jreg began to cry.

Overwhelmed with the options, tears spilling down his face, he closed his left hand into a fist and hit the side of his bathtub in frustration. He would soon have to face his lover— _the father of his child_ —and yet he was still unsure of a major factor:

_‘Would Commie even want to keep it?’_

Suddenly his train of thought came to a screeching halt as he heard heavy footsteps approaching the door. Without realizing, he had accidentally knocked all seven bottles of shampoo he had into the bathtub in his fit of terror, which created an astronomical amount of sound. Before he could collect himself, Commie pushed open the door and stepped in, a look of worry on his face.

“I heard unpleasant noise, are you okay?!” Commie bellowed. At the sight of his lover crying on the floor, the extremist moved forward to comfort him.

“ _Mоя мыши_ , what is wrong?”

The communist stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the device in the satirist’s right palm, gripped so tightly to his chest. As Commie flicked his vision upward, the two made eye contact briefly, until Jreg looked away in shame.

One beat passed. 

Two beats passed. 

Three, and Commie hesitantly moved in closer to his lover, crouching down to get a closer look. His left hand tentatively reached out and gripped, softly, Jreg’s right, lingering there until he turned it over so his palm faced upward. The anticentrist didn’t even attempt to hide the pregnancy test, nor the double line indicator adorned on the small screen. Commie’s concerned expression faltered as he deciphered the English text on the stick. Jreg prepared for the worst, shrinking inward slightly, afraid of his lover's possible reaction. Suddenly, Commie hand shot up to grab at Jreg’s chin and gently tip it towards his face where they made eye contact once more.

Tired and drained and anticipating, Jreg opened his mouth to speak--

“Commie, I—”

“We are going to be family!” The authoritarian boomed excitedly, interrupting him with a manic smile. Commie lifted Jreg up by the shoulders and wrapping his tree trunk arms around his lover’s smaller frame, careful to not squeeze too hard as to hurt his—no, _their_ —offspring. Mere minutes ago, Jreg thought his life was over—but now, surrounded in the warmth from the ideology he loved, he began to wonder if really it had just begun.

Jreg Jruevara was many things. A poet, a musician, a content creator for the masses; hard working, with a mastery of political satire. Today, Jreg realized he would soon be something else, too:

A father.

**Author's Note:**

> jreg isnt real. cope


End file.
